Sherlock and John Go Clubbing
by wendymarlowe
Summary: John pinched the bridge of his nose - even for Sherlock, this was a new level of no bloody boundaries. "You want me to go with you to a gay club, wait around twiddling my thumbs while I let you get pawed by a criminal, then out-flirt him and talk you into coming home with me instead?"
1. Chapter 1

"But it's for a _case_!"

John rolled his eyes. Despite Sherlock's delusions, "it's for a case" was _not_ a free pass allowing him to demand absolutely anything with no questions asked. John dearly wanted to flash his flatmate a two-fingered salute and go back to the table where his date was patiently waiting for him, but two things stopped him. One: the woman (some work friend of Mike's) had literally spent two thirds of the conversation so far talking about her rock collection, despite John having nothing to contribute on the subject of geology. And two: Sherlock was dressed for clubbing. He looked like pure sex. Tight black pants, even tighter grey mesh t-shirt, chunky belt, and some shiny black boots. It wasn't the first time John had seen him dressing "gay," but Sherlock had certainly outdone himself tonight.

"She's not going to sleep with you anyway," Sherlock whined. He poked his head around the corner of the restaurant's back hallway, where he and John were conversing in hissed whispers after John received the mid-date text "meet me at the loo."

John looked too - his date was currently toying with her phone, a vacant expression on her face. Sherlock was probably right. Hell, he was _always_ right about this kind of thing - John didn't really even need to ask for the clues anymore. He sighed. "Fine. I'll go, I just need to-"

"She's texting her girlfriend," Sherlock interrupted. "Lesbian but not out at work; didn't know how to tell Mike she was already seeing someone. She was going to let you down gently with some sort of platitude about being 'not right for each other' after dinner. You can text her after you change."

John looked down at the bag of clothing Sherlock held out. It was way too small for the material in there to actually comprise an entire outfit - not one that wouldn't match Sherlock's mesh top, anyway. "What's wrong with what I have on?"

Sherlock groaned aloud. "John, we are going to a _gay club_." He gestured toward his own outfit. "You need to look like you belong there."

 _Right_. John looked down at his shirt, then undid the top two buttons to expose a small V of skin. "There - I'll fit in fine."

"John, have you ever _been_ to a gay club?"

"Yes; have you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, but stopped insisting John wear whatever undoubtedly horrifying ensemble he had in the bag. John texted his date because he was too much of a coward to go apologize in person while she was texting her girlfriend, then tracked down his surprised server to give him forty quid (more than enough) and followed Sherlock out the door.

* * *

"So what exactly do you want me to do?"

Sherlock leaned back against the window of the taxi and _hmm_ ed. "Our suspect is a frequent visitor at The South Pole - yes, I realize the name is terrible innuendo - and Lestrade was able to confirm that he will definitely be there tonight. He's almost certainly involved in the money laundering case from three days ago. I need to let him pick me up, try to impress me with his financial status, and give me a few clues as to his current situation. I need you there to extricate me afterward - it would seem suspicious if I'm draped on him all evening but refuse to go home with him at the end of the night. He'll warn the others if he realizes what we're doing."

John pinched the bridge of his nose - even for Sherlock, this was a new level of _no bloody boundaries_. "You want me to go with you to a club, wait around twiddling my thumbs while I let you get pawed by a criminal, then out-flirt him and talk you into coming home with me instead?"

"You could dance while you wait, if you wanted to." Sherlock frowned. "You said you've been to a gay club - when?"

"Not everyone in the army is straight, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded, his confused expression clearing. "Accompanied your peers to a gay club as a group bonding exercise, then. I didn't envision that scenario."

John grinned. "Did you just admit you were _wrong_ about something?"

"I . . ." Sherlock sat up straighter, adopting what John privately thought of as his _believe-me-because-I'm-posher-than-you_ expression. "I merely was missing a vital piece of data about your army companions' sexual orientations."

 _Damn straight_. Or bi, as the case may be. John didn't correct him.

* * *

The club was loud, hot, and smelled like sweat. Pretty much exactly like what John remembered from the last time he went clubbing. Sherlock abandoned him two minutes in, sighting his quarry and cutting away through the crowd without a word. John fought his way to the bar to buy a beer - the only one he was intending to allow himself that night - and found a corner on the balcony where he could people-watch.

It really had been a while, John realized. The first gay club he'd ever attended - his second year at St. Bart's - had really been more of a dare. Mike had been teasing him about being bisexual but "so predictably domestic" in his pursuit of a nice, quiet girlfriend. In response, John dragged Mike and their friend Rupert to the nearest gay bar and proceeded to absolutely and forever cement his place in their minds as the best damn dancer there. He and Rupert had ended up side by side against the back wall of the club, being blown by twin twinks with rainbow-colored hair and exquisitely talented mouths. When John flipped his partner around to return the favor, he was gratified to see the man practically incoherent within a minute - and getting some jealous looks from Rupert's partner, who wasn't enjoying himself anywhere near as loudly. Saturday club nights with Rupert became a more or less weekly thing, minus Mike who was straight and said he'd been hit on by enough gay men in one night to last a lifetime. Opportunities to indulge while in the army hadn't been anywhere near as plentiful, but "Three Continents Watson" wasn't a nickname for nothing.

John smiled a bit wistfully at the memory and tried to focus back on the present. And on Sherlock. Their suspect turned out to be a bear, both in the metaphorical sense and also in the "large, hairy gay man" meaning of the word - broad-shouldered, overweight, and with a wild-looking scraggly beard. He was also a terrible dancer. John watched with one eyebrow raised as Sherlock casually slipped in next to him on the dance floor and started to grind against his arse - the suspect looked over his shoulder and got a good look at Sherlock (who was doing a damn good impression of a horny, tipsy twink), then commenced waving his pelvis about like he was attempting to ride a bucking bull. Other dancers started giving them a wide berth. It was truly embarrassing to watch, but Sherlock feigned complete oblivion.

The two of them migrated from the dance floor to the bar, where the man bought Sherlock three drinks in a row and Sherlock flirted mercilessly. John didn't lip-read as well as Sherlock did, but their body language told the whole story - Sherlock leaning in, depositing casual and not-so-casual touches on the man's body, and the suspect absolutely drinking it up. He kept standing up straighter and puffing out his chest, possibly in an attempt to look taller than Sherlock. (It failed, but only just - Sherlock was a shade taller, but the suspect easily had four stone on him.) No amount of good posture could have redeemed his horrible fashion sense, though, and when even _John_ could pick up on bad fashion . . .

After forty-five minutes or so, Sherlock glanced up at the balcony where John had stationed himself. It was the first time he'd acknowledged John's presence since they'd first arrived, and John took it for the signal it was. He squeezed his way down the stairs and back up to the bar near where Sherlock and the suspect were chatting. By the time he got back in line of sight, the man was attempting to leave a whiskery hickey on Sherlock's neck and Sherlock was visibly rolling his eyes even while sighing and going boneless against him.

 _Right, enough of that_. John slipped two more buttons free, exposing more of his chest, then started his approach.

"Hey, cutie."

Sherlock and the suspect broke apart, the suspect glowering and Sherlock smiling a bit vaguely. It really was amazing how he was able to pass for ten years younger just with a bit of eyeliner and a completely new set of mannerisms.

"Been looking for you for ages," John continued. "Don't know how a tall bloke like you can disappear so thoroughly in the crowd, but there you are. I still owe you that drink. And the mind-blowing shag I promised."

Sherlock licked his lips. "I . . . I assumed you'd left."

"And miss my chance with that gorgeous arse?" John gave Sherlock a thorough once-over, letting his appreciation for Sherlock's lean form in that tight mesh shirt show plainly through in his gaze. Sherlock swallowed hard.

"I've already got a drink," he said softly, glancing down at the glass on the counter next to him. It held something electric pink and probably disgustingly sweet. John sighed inwardly, then grabbed the drink and upended it one go.

"There - no more drink. No obligation. Just you, and me, and the way I'm going to bloody well make your head spin again out there on the dance floor." He reached out to slide a hand across Sherlock's back to encircle his waist. And then let his fingertips slip a bit lower, dipping just under those tight black trousers over Sherlock's hip. "Tell me - you ever actually come in your pants while dancing? Because I damn well aim to get you close."

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes wide. "John," he breathed.

"Sorry, mate," John told the suspect. "I called first dibs tonight."

Sherlock bit his lip and gave a tiny shrug. His awed-clueless-twink mask was back into place for a moment - but it was brittle, like he was having to really work to keep up the ruse. "He did, Luis. Sorry - maybe some other time?"

Their suspect looked like he wanted to murder John, thoroughly and painfully, but at John's _come at me and you'll regret it_ glare he backed up a bit. _Damn right_. It wasn't much - Luis wasn't going to give up entirely just yet - but John had no intention of waiting around and inviting more argument. "Come on, babe, let's go show 'em how it's done."


	2. Chapter 2

Luis's stare felt like a physical pressure between John's shoulderblades as John maneuvered Sherlock back to the dance floor.

"He's watching you," Sherlock said, head turned carefully so Luis couldn't see his lips move.

"Ta, I got that." John took the opportunity to pull Sherlock a bit tighter against his side, stretching up to speak directly into Sherlock's ear. The music wasn't quite loud enough to actually require them to shout, but it was definitely several decibels above anything John voluntarily listened to nowadays. "Can't say I blame him for being jealous, though - I'd fight for you too, if it were me."

Sherlock just blinked at him.

"Come on; let's dance." John twirled Sherlock smoothly to face him, using the crowd on the dance floor for a plausible excuse to press himself against Sherlock's front. "Try to look like you're having fun. He'll be over here in no time, otherwise."

"Right."

Sherlock was a gorgeous dancer, all long limbs and graceful movement, but John rather suspected the club was not his native element. Would he have had dance lessons when he was a child? It wasn't hard to picture Mycroft knowing the steps to every formal dance in the world and gliding through them with a tight smile on his lips for diplomacy's sake, so it stood to reason Sherlock probably knew them too. He was entirely too focused, though. That really needed to change.

John turned fluidly with the beat of the music, catching Sherlock's hands (which Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with) and wrapping them around his own waist. Their height difference put the back of John's head about even with Sherlock's collarbone. He leaned back against Sherlock's chest, closed his eyes, and let his hips go with the music.

"I had no idea you could dance," Sherlock murmured in his ear, just barely loud enough to be heard. "You didn't just do this once or twice in solidarity with your army buddies, did you."

"Mmmm." John drew Sherlock's hands up to his chest, pressing Sherlock's fingers over his nipples through his shirt. Sherlock hesitated at first, but after a minute and quite a bit more motion from John, he let his fingertips trace small circles over the fabric. John hummed encouragement and let his own hands drift up and down Sherlock's arms. He could see Luis watching, now. John shot him a smug smile.

It took another two songs, but eventually Sherlock loosened up enough to start dancing the way he had before with Luis instead of whatever way he thought was the least likely to bring his cock in contact with John's derriere. Not that it was particularly difficult to tell that he was already semi-hard. Finally John resorted to some up-and-down shimmying which ground his arse against Sherlock's crotch, and Sherlock gave up the fight.

"John, I'm . . ."

"Sherlock." John turned in Sherlock's arms, sliding his own palms over Sherlock's sides and planting them firmly on the mesh shirt just above those skin-tight jeans. "Don't you dare apologize for dancing with me. You look sexy as fuck in that getup, you're brilliant, and best of all-" - John stretched up to his tiptoes so he could stare down Sherlock on a more or less level angle- "-feeling your cock straining against your jeans because of me _turns. me. on."_

Sherlock's eyes widened, the shock in them plain to see. He opened his mouth, possibly to argue, but John very deliberately slid his body down Sherlock's front and the only word that came out of Sherlock's mouth was a breathy _"oh."_

"Damn right." John let himself sway in time with the pounding beat of the music, grinding his own hard-on against Sherlock's in what could only loosely still be termed "dancing." He let his hands drift downward, slipping into Sherlock's back pockets and palming the firm globes of his arse, and Sherlock let out a little noise that might have been a squeak. John found himself wishing the music were a lot quieter so he could have heard that tiny, involuntary whimper more clearly.

Luis was probably still watching. John didn't fucking care anymore. Sherlock was already halfway to incoherent - awed silence was a good look on him - and honestly, tonight was good a night as any to correct the _slight_ misapprehension Sherlock had about his sexuality. _"There's always something," my arse._ John had kept his mouth shut at first because he was bloody sick of being invisible because he was bi, and sooner or later Sherlock was bound to figure it out and correct himself. The "sooner or later" kept not coming, though, and the few times John _had_ flirted with someone male, everyone seemed to want to dismiss it as an anomaly. Because John Watson couldn't possibly be living with Sherlock Holmes and not shagging him blind unless he were 100% not interested in men. And if Sherlock weren't interested in anybody.

Now, twining around Sherlock's lean body like an X-rated maypole, John was starting to think that maybe Sherlock's aloof "sexual urges are for peasants" routine might have been a result of him being a social idiot rather than any particular asexual tendencies. Sherlock certainly flirted well (albeit mostly for cases), and clearly his parasympathetic nervous system was healthy and functional. Plus it felt like he had a good-sized cock. John locked eyes with Sherlock and shimmied his way down almost to his knees, his hips still keeping time with the music while wedged between Sherlock's thighs. _Bloody good thing he cured my limp_. Sherlock was still gamely attempting to keep up, but lost the beat entirely when John blatantly licked his stomach through the mesh of the shirt and put on his best "I'm gonna blow you so hard" smirk.

"Fuck." Sherlock swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply against that pale neck. "John, please, I . . ."

"Was that a please more?" John bared his neck, rubbing the bulge in Sherlock's jeans against his carotid. "Or a please stop?" He arched backward with the music, shimmying down to the floor and back up. Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on him the whole time.

"I don't . . ." Sherlock blinked several times, losing the thread of the dancing altogether. "I didn't know. That you wanted this."

"Mmm." John worked his way back up to his feet, then planted a foot firmly between Sherlock's legs and bent him over backward a bit. Their cocks ground against each other's thighs as John worked the beat. "I thought you're supposed to notice everything. Bit fuzzy-headed now?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes still wide.

"Bit turned on?"

Another nod. Sherlock bit his lip. John was hard-pressed not to yank him back up and bite that tender lip for him.

"Here's your three choices, then." John did pull him back upright, then twined his arms around Sherlock's neck so he could lower his voice and still be heard. "Choice number one is we stay here and keep dancing and hope that eventually Luis will give up on you and go away. Choice number two is catch a cab, call Lestrade, and pretend this entire night never happened."

"And the third?"

John grinned at him. It was a predatory smile. "Choice number three," he growled, "is for us to go home, call Lestrade, and then I shag you so thoroughly you forget your own bloody _name_. I have to say, I'm a bit offended you've never deduced that I'm bi." He nipped gently at Sherlock's exposed collarbone. "Seems like I really ought to take you back to 221B and provide you with a preponderance of evidence."

Their chests were pressed so tightly together, John was able to literally feel when Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. And then accelerated. Sherlock's cock was pressing even more insistently against his own, and John couldn't help another quick grind.

"Home," Sherlock gasped. "John, take me home. _Now_."

* * *

A few notes:

The bad part: I never did get around to updating anything last week. Really sorry about that!

The good part: I promise to finish this fic next week :-)

The REALLY good part: The fantabulous Annabeth Albert (annabethalbert dot com) and I are going to be co-writing a sexy M/M novella! Which will be free! And we need your help!

We are holding a survey for YOU all to help us decide what it's about! Come to goo . gl/forms/BuXcKNr7cA (no spaces; this site just really hates links) to vote on where it will be set, which pair of hunky heroes will star in it, and what kinky fun times you think would make the book better. We'll be releasing it for free on Amazon sometime this summer.

It's not going to be John and Sherlock, but it is going to be fantastically sexy and a hell of a lot of fun to write. All this fanfic has sharpened my smut-writing skills just a tiny bit . . . :-D


	3. Chapter 3

John practically threw Sherlock into the cab the moment the door was open far enough. He'd taken one last look around for Luis while he was bundling Sherlock out of the club, but Luis appeared to be back at the bar chatting up some other skinny twink and thus wasn't watching. Just as well. John had _plans_.

"Call Lestrade." He tossed Sherlock his own phone - no chance Sherlock had his own on him, not with those pants so tight you could count the change in his pocket - and slid in the cab behind him. All the way to the middle, crowding into Sherlock's space. Sherlock shivered. He also dialed with surprising obedience while John directed the driver to 221B. The man eyed them in the mirror, but wisely didn't say anything after receiving the full weight of John's glare.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was faint, but audible from the phone's speaker. "What's wrong? You usually text."

"John insisted I call," Sherlock said. "Luis Alvarez is definitely facilitating the money laundering scheme, but he's not the instigator. Not receiving a big enough piece of the pie to be the mastermind behind it. He's got a partner, male, small hands, blond. Physically the less stronger of the two but an excellent social manipulator. Check Alvarez's living arrangements - his boyfriend spends at least some time at his flat, so there should be some obvious sources of DNA there. Text me when you've got his flat secured and I'll come clean up the mess your forensics techs make of the data collection."

There was a long pause. Then . . . "Sorry," Lestrade said. "I got stuck on the 'John insisted I call' part. Since when have you ever done what you're told?"

John slid his hand down into the back of Sherlock's tight jeans, squeezing one taut globe of his arse. Sherlock straightened immediately but didn't pull away. And _fuck_ , he was wearing absolutely nothing under those jeans at _all_. Suddenly the cab's speed felt totally inadequate.

"Actually," Sherlock practically gasped, "don't text. I'll call you. Later." He ended the call and dropped the phone to the floor.

"Good choice," John murmured, leaning in close so he could insinuate his hand even further down. "So that's all settled, then?"

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.

"Case can wait?"

"John . . ."

"I'm going to assume that's a 'yes.'" John moved closer, upper body still touching the back of the seat but hips very definitely pinning Sherlock's to the door of the cab beside him. "Got to say, though, I'm a bit disappointed in you."

Sherlock's head snapped up straight and he frowned. "Oh?"

"Yeah." John massaged Sherlock's arse gently, hinting at the kind of body contact they would have soon. When they were safely back in the flat. "You should have deduced I was bi ages ago, but you didn't."

Sherlock swallowed. "I assumed it was merely confirmation bias."

"You were hoping I'd be attracted to you and therefore refused to accept the _blatantly obvious clues_ that I actually was?"

"I . . . didn't want to risk being wrong."

"It was still a risk." John ghosted his hand up the front of Sherlock's shirt. Thumbed Sherlock's nipple through the holes in the mesh. Sherlock shuddered. "You missed out on all the fantastic sex we could have been having. All this time, Sherlock. Because you doubted your deductions."

Sherlock practically quivered, perfect posture and all, but he didn't comment.

"Oi!" The cab driver jabbed a thumb toward Speedy's, outside the window next to them. "Get out before you make a mess of my seat!"

John slid smoothly out of the seat and paid. Sherlock exited the cab with significantly less than his usual grace. They headed up the stairs to 221B together, mindful of Mrs. Hudson's open door and the sound of the telly spilling from it, but once they got upstairs John snapped the door shut behind them and spun Sherlock around to pin him against it.

"You," John growled, "look so damned fuckable I had a hard time not just charging out on the dance floor and trying out my left hook on your arse-faced suspect. Grinding himself against you like he had the right."

"It was for a case," Sherlock murmured. "I didn't-"

"I know you didn't know." Didn't make John feel any less possessive. "So - in case you're still not sure - _you. are. MINE."_ He jammed both hands into Sherlock's waistband, yanked him by the arse until their cocks were pressed together through the fabric of their jeans. "Should I demonstrate it for you?"

 _"Yes,"_ Sherlock breathed. "Please, John-"

John rocked once more, twice, practically up on his tiptoes to balance out their height difference. It didn't matter - Sherlock was practically hanging on him now, fingers pressing tightly into the scar tissue on his ruined shoulder. It didn't matter. Sherlock was wide-eyed, breathless, so damn responsive . . . John hooked a toe around the back side of Sherlock's heel and twisted them both into a controlled fall onto the red patterned rug. He landed on top of a very surprised consulting detective and immediately dove down for a punishing kiss.

Sherlock kissed like he pursued serial killers - focused, single-minded, and brilliant. John would have put good money on Sherlock not being able to recall more than the barest details about the money laundering case at the moment, but it didn't matter because Sherlock was pouring all that desperate attention out at _him_ and was the most beautiful damn thing on the planet while doing so. John pulled back slightly, just enough Sherlock could see the determination in his eyes, then levered himself down in a one-armed press-up to invade Sherlock's mouth without letting his weight settle onto Sherlock's body.

And as predicted, Sherlock's whole spine curled as he tried to wrap himself around John, press their cocks together, bury himself in the kiss. The more John took control of Sherlock's mouth, his body, the more Sherlock begged with everything but words for John to claim him, _own_ him.

"Yes," Sherlock panted when John finally allowed him a chance to breathe. "John, please, I-"

"Hands behind your back," John commanded.

Sherlock immediately shut up and jammed his hands under the small of his back. John ducked down to lick and then nibble on Sherlock's nipple, the peak poking slyly through the mesh of the shirt, and Sherlock's entire body jackknifed with desperation. _So. Damn. Gorgeous_. Sherlock's eyes were wild, his breath loud in the silent flat, and all John wanted to do was to make him come. It probably wouldn't take much - just a hand on his cock, he was already writhing against John's body anyway-

 _No_. John lifted his own hips higher, out of Sherlock's reach. "Listen closely," he growled, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's. "You are going to come when, and _only_ when, I let you. Not a moment before."

Sherlock whimpered and nodded.

"You don't even need me to touch your cock, do you? You're desperate for me. Overwhelmed. I'm pinning you down while barely touching you and yet you can't get away. Care to try?"

". . . No." Sherlock bit his lip again, looking simultaneous young and fragile. John wanted to bite him, mark him, pick him up by the hair and drag him away to somewhere he could lock him up and keep him safe.

He did another half-press-up instead, resting his chest on Sherlock's but keeping his weight on his arm. "So eager," he murmured. "All that brainpower, all that energy, and you're _mine_."

Sherlock let out a soft breath. "Yes."

"To keep."

"Please."

"Want me to mark you?" John shoved his free hand in his trousers, yanked his flies open and gave his aching cock a much-needed tug. "Gonna come all over those tight jeans, that fuck-me shirt. Gonna get come on your stomach, your pants." He slid a tiny bit lower, so his mouth was hovering over Sherlock's neck. "Except you're not wearing pants, are you? Your cock is right there for the taking, if I wanted. If I let you touch yourself."

Sherlock whimpered.

And that whimper snapped the last thread tying John to any rational thought. All that was left was the caveman in his brain, yelling _claim, claim claim_. John wanked himself furiously, the backs of his fingers just barely brushing the hardness of Sherlock's erection below him. The long line of Sherlock's pale neck was _right there_ , ripe for the taking . . .

John didn't _bite_ , not exactly, but he did use his teeth as he closed his mouth over the warm throb of Sherlock's carotid and _sucked_. Hard. Sherlock cried out, a primal sound of submission and acceptance, and slammed his hips upward into John's. John could literally feel the spasms of Sherlock's cock as he came in his jeans, rocking against John and moaning with each new wave of pleasure. John got in one more frantic pull and then he was coming too, leaking everywhere, come soaking into the fabric of Sherlock's clothes and mixing with the wet spot already forming there from the inside.

"John." Sherlock's arms tightened around John's shoulders, trapping him in a bear hug of emotional release. John let himself collapse. It felt good, _right_ , to cover Sherlock's body head to toe like this with his own.

 _Mine_.

They lay there on the floor for several minutes, until the jut of Sherlock's hipbones became too painful to ignore. John rolled off Sherlock and lay beside him in silence.

"That was . . ." Sherlock stared at the ceiling, cleared his throat. "That thing you did. It was . . . good."

John propped himself up one elbow, letting Sherlock see his smirk. "Just good?" he prompted.

"Brilliant. Fantastic. Incredible." Sherlock smiled peacefully and closed his eyes. "Thank you for correcting me, John. This is the best erroneous deduction I've made, ever."


End file.
